Poor Unhappy Mother
by Smaug the Writing Dragon
Summary: Leroux-based, but it's a future excerpt from my main story that is unfortunately stuck right now because of lack of time. Not a happy tale within...


"_Mother," he whimpered, pressing a small hand against the oak leg of her dresser, staring up at the tall beautiful woman above him. She kept her gaze level, staring into the fire on the hearth, ignoring his soft pleas. "Mother, why will you not see me?" His six-year-old heart twisted when she flinched at his sudden brief touch. She pulled her fingers from his gentle grip and recoiled against the mantle. _

"_Stop this foolishness, child," she ordered, finally deigning to look at him. He noticed that she would not look at his face. He reached out for her hand again, and this time she crossed the room to get away from him. He pushed one hesitant hand against the brown leather over his cheeks. Did the leather scare her so badly? Why had she insisted he wear it then? _

_Ponderously, he followed the woman across the plush Persian rug, thin little body quivering with sadness. "Mother, why are you afraid? I will not hurt you. Why will you not touch me?" He stopped a foot away from her full gown, admiring her beauty from a distance, as she seemed to wish._

"_Stop it," she snapped down at him. "You stay away from me, cursed little wretch!" His half-hidden eyes blinked up at her, confused and frightened by her tone of voice. She was angry with him; if only he had known what he had done. Who was he, to scare her so? What was he? "Mother, I just want to feel your hand," he begged, inching forward. That hand looked so soft and comforting, long, slender fingers made for holding. _

_Fingers that turned to steel. He felt the stinging slap of that perfect hand even through the thick leather of his mask. His bony little body backpedaled in terror as he fled the cruel touch. Oh, what had he done? He had asked too much again, and now there was that madness in her eyes. He was not good enough to hold her hand, just like he did not deserve her kiss. He realized with horror that she saw him crying._

"_You little demon! Quit crying!" she screamed at him, the sound echoing through the great house. "Devils should not cry! You are a devil!" _

_He stared up at her beautiful face. "Why?" he whimpered again. "Why do you push me away? Why can you not love me? I will be good, Mother. Just tell me-" he broke off his pleading when he saw her approach. Was she going to apologize and tell him she loved him? Hope held him to the floor. Then he saw the hand rise up again and flinched away. Backward over the rug he tumbled, fleeing that hurtful, beautiful hand, collapsing into a tiny, trembling heap. _

_She pulled him to his feet, gingerly gripping his small arm with two fingers. The other hand ripped the leather from his face and spun him in a tight circle, forcing him to the vanity mirror on the wall. She cried out at him, "That is why you are a devil! You are marked by the devil! Look at your hideous face!" _

_And he looked. And he feared. And he loathed. How he loathed that hideous face, like she did. Why had she been cursed with a monster for a son? He clasped his small hands to his face in fear, but she ripped them away. "You can never hide a monster!" she shrilled, fingernails digging into his arm. "Why were you born? I did not want a demon child. I hate your face!"_

_He did too, but she could not see that. There was madness in her angelic voice. "I do not wish to look at it! I want it gone! Leave, monster, and give me a son, a real son!" He cringed in her vice grip, tried to squirm away and failed. She started to drag him towards the bathroom, and he wailed loudly._

"_Mother, you are hurting me!" _

"_I will have a son!" she sobbed back, throwing him against the porcelain tub and reaching into the cupboard above his grotesque head. He shrank back under the tub, flattening his body against the floor, curling in upon himself, trying to hide the visage that so enraged her. He had no time to comprehend the gleaming blade that she withdrew from the cupboard before she slashed it into the deformed side of his face. He screamed at the blinding pain that exploded in his cheek. "I want it gone!" she shrieked, gripping his face in her hand and bringing the knife down again. He made a sound like a rabbit caught in his father's traps, jerking in her hands and feeling the blood drip from his horrible face. _

_A nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. Where was his mother to wake him up and comfort him and tell him it was only a nightmare? She was here, holding the bloody blade above his head, fending off a gruesome monster. He heard the distant shouts coming from downstairs, heard the horrified gasps coming from the doorway, felt his mother being dragged away and subdued. _

_Oh, his poor, unhappy mother…_

_They should have just let her go. He did not want to live like this, but he had no time to argue…Darkness was descending…the pain was fading… _

**This is an excerpt from my big story that is currently stuck in its spot from business. It's a flashback from later in the tale and an interpretation of Erik's mother-situation, and I was feeling a bit dark and depressed at the time. There's really not much there that Leroux tells us about Erik's home situation, other than hinting it wasn't pretty. Goodness. Probably my most depressing moment yet in fan fiction. I'm hoping this will inspire me to keep writing my first story.**


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